


Attenuation

by Savorysavery



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Android!Chiaki, Coping, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Post-Despair, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Previous Body Shaming, Romance, Slow Burn, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6518698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savorysavery/pseuds/Savorysavery





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Mikan wakes up to a world where she has to learn to cope, but thankfully won't have to do it alone. 

**Rated:** Mature

 **Genres:** Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy, Fluff

 

 **Author's Note:** This piece is another in a long list of post-despair pieces I've wanted to write, with a very specific focus on Mikan healing. This is set after they assume their seventeen/eighteen: rather, in this piece, Mikan wakes up and she's 21, almost 22. It's a piece that concentrates on a world where Chiaki survives the game and is reborn as an android working still for the Future Foundation. It's a slow burn piece, which means romance, something I've wanted to explore between these two: I suppose you could say I'm a bit of a closet shipper when it comes to them. Additionally, I'll be using a "chapter warnings" system, since this is more of a longer running piece. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this piece: it already has a place in my heart.

* * *

 

 

_struct group_info init_groups = { .usage = ATOMIC_INIT(2) };_

_struct group_info *groups_alloc(int gidsetsize){_

_struct group_info *group_info;_

_int nblocks;_

_int i;_

_Command: Initiate Alter Ego_v3_derivative_Gamer_

_nblocks = (gidsetsize + NGROUPS_PER_BLOCK - 1) / NGROUPS_PER_BLOCK;_

_Command: Initiate Download into External Structure_

_nblocks = nblocks ? : 1;_

_group_info = kmalloc(sizeof(*group_info) + nblocks*sizeof(gid_t *), GFP_USER);_

_if (!group_info)_

_return VALID; Download complete. Upload initated._

_group_info- >ngroups = gidsetsize;_

_group_info- >nblocks = nblocks;_

_atomic_set( &group_info->usage, 1);_

_if (gidsetsize <= NGROUPS_SMALL)_

_ </ul>_

_Return group_info file/Survivors_

_alloc: SimMem_

_Stabilizing System._

_End source. System restarting in 15 seconds…_

_…System rebooting. Initiating reboot of “AlterEgo3.exe”. All systems online. Patient entering an aware state…_

_…System restart successful. Initiating <Friend> derivative and scanning memories. _

_....System scan successful. Booting now._

_It’s time to **wake up**_ **.**

 

Tsumiki Mikan woke up to a world of white, blinding lights shining down on her body, crisscrossed with tubes and bandages, stitches at her hips. It was disorientating, a disconnect: even though she’d known her death, her digital demise, was false, she still saw herself reaching towards a hand, red, oval nails extended towards her, beckoning her to the shining beyond. Even now, she wondered if she had made it to that Other Side, pondered if this is where Junko resided, but the **beep. beep. beep.** of her heart monitor said otherwise.

She couldn’t move, and that was the better: Mikan knew she was more likely to hurt herself than to be steady. After all, she had no clue how long she’d _truly_ been asleep, if it had been a matter of mere months, or years. Either way, Mikan wouldn’t be able to function, at this point, indepdently, and so she lay.

Her monitor started to speed up as fear dawned inside her, blooming in her stomach and twisting it. She began to thrash, albiet weakly, feet and hands slapping at her bed. The door thudded as a nurse swept in, then a call; “I need a cart and the Doctor!” Then a rush of activity that left Mikan all too awake.

She was scrubbed clean, rubbed raw with a rough, mechanical hand, and like a babe, felt rushed into the world, washed clean of muck and grime. It was a very impersonal way to come into waking, but necessary: Mikan could smell the staleness of her body, a form clinging to liquid foods and a constant stream of medicine.

“How long?” Mikan manages to groan out, right as the nurse -plain and unassuming- raised her arm, dragging the sponge up her side.

“Two years,” she replies, and rubs a bit harder sweeping a mess of staleness from Mikan’s body. “Fortunately, you’re not the only one awake. Five others are up.”

“Who?”

“Hinata, Souda, Owari, Kuzuryuu, and…Ah, Nevermind,” she replies, using their last names: it’s clinical through and through.

Mikan perked up at the thought of Hajime: he was always kind to her, and even in the end, his heart broke, watching her go quietly to her execution. She shuddered, in part from the sponge sweeping down her hip, in part from thinking about facing them, about facing **Hajime Hinata**. She gulps, and relaxes as the nurse tilts her back, adjusting the bed so that she’s angled upright.

Eventually, the nurse leaves, and a new, kinder looking woman replaces her, introducing herself as Aiko. She is sweet faced, with soft eyes and greying hair, the kind of person that instantly puts Mikan at ease. “Hello, Miss Tsumiki. We’re glad to see you awake,” she begins, and Mikan nods meekly, cheeks warming. “How do you feel?”

 _Odd_ , Mikan thought. _Like a dream. Like I died for nothing, not for despair, not for hope, just passed on into…this_. “I don’t know. I _just_ don’t know,” Mikan whispers, and she sniffles, feeling her head throb with a pending headache. Her throat it still raw, still aches and scratches, so she goes quiet again.

“Well, you know, that’s perfectly alright,” Aiko says, and she pats Mikan’s arm gently, fingers warm and smooth. “Everything is a forward process towards the you that you want to become. That’s why I’m here: to help you grow into your own hope.” From anyone else, it would sound hokey, but from Aiko, it sounds heartfelt, and pulls at Mikan once more.  “For now, let’s just focus on centering you. I don’t believe I introduced myself past my name, but I am your therapist. The Future Foundation has assigned me to help you become the person you want to be. We won’t be meeting for a while, since you’ve just woken up, and you need to recover, but we’ll meet soon enough.”

“So then I’ll be alone?” Mikan can’t help it: all that despair is gone from her body, and the only sour taste in her mouth is resolve, resolve to be left, to be abandoned in cruel reality once more. “I mean, that’s-“

“Oh, no, Mikan,” Aiko interjects, and she flashes a gentle smile. “Actually, you’ll be interfacing with one of our new programs. She’s _very_ glad to meet you: actually, it’s someone you’ve met before.” Aiko turns and motions, and the door shuts, a hard thump: Mikan wonders when it opened in the first place.

The figure that walks in is short, a bit pudge, with a pleated skirt and a backpack that always made Mikan think of a cat. Normally, there’s be a white button, pretty pink ribbon at the neck and a green strip down the front, but it’s hidden beneath a green hoodie, the ears on top pointed as if listening. Mikan starts to shake: her head, her hands, her entire form, and

“Chiaki,” Mikan croaks out, and the girl lifts her head, soft toned hands tugging down the hood. She removed the hood and long, pink hair spills out, and when Mikan blinks, pale, nut brown eyes trained on her.

 

* * *

 

The shock of seeing Nanami Chiaki, somehow realized outside of a series of ones and zeroes, has Mikan’s heart monitor speeding up, has her stomach threatening to send her sprawling over the side, knocking against her front. She feels her eyes widen, feels sweat tickle the nape of her neck and roll down until it’s at the small of her back. This is _far_ more scary than facing Hajime: it’s facing something that was meant to be locked inside a **game.**

“Hey, hey,” Chiaki greets, stepping closer. Mikan let’s out a squeak and whimpers, shying away, arms thrown up in front of her face. The muscles are weak though, and after a matter of seconds, they drop, heavy on the white sheets.

“Ch-Chi-Chiaki!” Mikan manages to breath out, and shakes mores, head bobbing side to side. “No! No! No! No!”

“Mikan, please-”

“No!” Mikan bays out, and her throat _burns_ , and Aiko is shifting, rushing out and returning with a cup of lukewarm water. Mikan calms when she returns, enough to take a sip, then twists a bit, trying to angle herself away from Chiaki as much as she can.

“Perhaps this was a poor choice on my end,” Aiko begins, looking to Chiaki, who’s eyes are tilted down, a hand twirling a strand of pink hair around, around, around. “We didn’t consider her shock.”

“My systems ran a check though. It seemed like Mikan would be okay.” There’s a hint of sadness in Chiaki’s voice, the sound of her lips tilting down. “Is there an error in the reports I received from her monitors?”

“No, no,” Aiko says. “I suppose it’s just part of her being human.”

“Ah,” Chiaki says, and clucks her tongue. “Well, that does make sense. Mikan was always a bit…” Chiaki pauses once more. “Well, I’ll leave Mikan alone for right now. Shall I return as per the schedule?”

“Of course,” Aiko says, and then Chiaki is gone, and the panic fades to exhaustion. Aiko turns back, full focus on Mikan, and whispers, “she’s gone, I promise.”

Mikan slumps back over, onto her back, and nods, features wan. “I…How is she here?”

“Ah, Chiaki-chan? She’s an android, simply put,” Aiko replies. “I’d say more, but I believe that Chiaki would like to explain herself. It develops her new AI, but… Well, she’s not much different from us.” Aiko crosses her legs and leans forward. “Now, it looks like you’ve had a bit of a day. What do you say to some food?”

“That’d be nice. Do I… have to go to the others?” Mikan asks, and yawns. Aiko’s eyes flare for a moment, then she schools her features back into calm comfort.

“Not today, unless you want.” Mikan doesn’t want, and is thankful that Aiko doesn’t push her to go either. “I’ll remind you, though I’m sure you know, but we can’t let you sleep tonight. There’s too much risk that you’ll fall back asleep and reenter your coma. We’ll do our best to keep you entertained, but…Well, bear with the nurses.”

Mikan doesn’t say anything, just nods, and waits until a plain, chicken broth is brought to her, unsalted and watery. It’s the best thing though: the flavor of the chicken threatens to swallow every sense she has, and for the first time ever, she senses the density of liquid, a heavy shifting that covers her tongue until she swallows, slowly spooning up more. Half of the broth goes onto her lap, spills down her chest, and even when the nurse comes in, it’s still a challenge to adjust to this new body, to the Mikan that’s skinnier, four inches taller, three years older. But eventually, the bowl is empty, and Mikan is left with the white noise of a television, set to change via voice command.

She channels for a while, seeing what this broken world has to talk about, and finds that it’s the same: news, dramas, pop culture shows, and sports. It seems that the world Enoshima - _Junko_ , _Beloved_ \- broke has rebuilt under the far-reaching Future Foundation. It’s World Ending alright: ended the world that Enoshima - _Junko_ , she thinks, _beloved_ , she chants- built and started the process of healing from a gaping, bleeding wound.

Time creeps on until Mikan settles on a channel that plays music, its background simply swirling pinks and purples. It’s all catchy instrumentals, and after a few songs, Mikan finds that most of them, she knows, and hums along, trying to keep herself alert and awake. It’s easy and peaceful, and there’s no way she feels she can make any mistakes, no way for her to tuck into feeling abhorrent, and for two hours, she sings and hums, alternating depending on how much of a song she knows.

 _Knock. Knock_. It’s two in the morning when the sound echoes into her room, and she expects another nurse, checking in on her and ensuring she’s fine, awake, and alert. Mikan turns her attention from the television and pauses humming: no one’s entered yet, and instead, the door remains shut. It takes her a moment before someone is speaking _through_ the door, won’t enter. “Um…Mikan?”

_Soft voice. Pink hair._

It’s Chiaki again, and Mikan feels that same, exhausting thread of fear unravel in her gut, and though she can move a bit easier now, at least from the waist up, she can’t _run_ from the feeling. She forces herself to sit still, then, to answer. “I…I’m okay! I’m still awake, and doing alright!”

 _Rattle_. The door swings in, a soft thump against the wall, then Chiaki peeks inside, leaning only a little past the wall that forms the entryway. “I’ll stay over here,” she warns, and Mikan calms a bit, gripping the sheets with loose fists, fingers aching from the strain of it. “I just wanted to check back on you. I know it’s more trouble than anything, but… Well, every since your systems went offline from the simulation, I’ve been worried. Especially since, well…” Chiaki pauses, and for the first time since they’ve seen each other, looks incredibly uncomfortable. “Since you knew that it was all fake.”

Mikan gasps, surprised: she and Chiaki weren’t particularly close, though Chiaki always had a gentleness with her. There were small occasions, times when Chiaki would tuck Mikan into her cabin in the simulation, would let her play video games, show her small tricks. Yet there was never anything overt between them, no definable friendship that went past surviving looming death. The fact that she read her, that she knew that Mikan had figured out the game, unnerves her, and makes it hard to answer, sticks a lump into the back of her throat.

“That…” Mikan pauses. “Yes.”

“It’s alright, Mikan. I’m not mad,” Chiaki offers. “I don’t want you to take this into yourself. I’m here, and well… that’s enough credit to hope, isn’t it?” Chiaki chuckles, smiles gently. “Do you still not want me here?”

Mikan shrugs, non-committal. A big part of her is so unnerved still, but a part of her is greedy for company, to not be left alone only half a day after waking. “Stay,” she whispers, looking over to Chiaki with slick, burning eyes. She whimpers out another answer: “please.”

“Okay,” Chiaki replies, and she steps into the room, pushes up the door and takes off her backpack, thudding it onto the ground, slides off her jacket, revealing a much simpler shirt: a graphic tee that’s too big for her and covers her shorts. Mikan feels that they _must_ be pajamas: odd for a being that doesn’t need sleep, she thinks, if Chiaki _really_ is an android like Aiko said. Before she settles in in full, she bends over and grabs something from her backpack: a plastic container of gelatin, blue as the ocean. There’s a small spoon pressed against it too, red and plastic, shining in the dimmed lights. “It’s jello! I know they gave you broth earlier, but…well, you waking up is happy, right? So a treat,” Chiaki says, and peels the top off, setting in in Mikan’s lap. She places the spoon in the center, cutting deep into the jiggling cup.

Mikan looks down, then over at Chiaki, then back and down, and begins to laugh. It’s anxious and unsure, bubbling up from her chest, a laugh that don’t go away, even when she puts a spoonful of sweet jello into her mouth. Chiaki doesn’t say anything: just smiles and watches Mikan lose it as she eats the jello, sugar crackling over her tongue, artificial tropical taste somewhat ironic. She doesn’t speak, in fact, until the spoon is digging at the little bits of blue left, then Chiaki is back next to Mikan, taking the cup to the trash.

“Now, I suppose we should talk,” Chiaki says, and the lilt in her voice is still there, an upbeat, chipper chirp that is so, so uncomfortably familiar. She pulls up the chair Aiko sat in earlier, and tucks herself into it, legs pulled to her chest so that she balances her feet on the bottom of the seat, and tilts her head. “I’m sure you wonder why I’m not longer on the Island.”

“I do,” Mikan says. “I remembered you weren’t every there before, when we…” She gulps: she has to say _it_ in some way. “When The Tragedy happened.” She looks back down, anxiety rolling over her in waves then exhales slowly.

“Well, to be honest, I’m surprised I’m here now,” Chiaki says, looking up. Her eyes are a bit distant, and when she looks at Mikan, it’s as if she’s seeing **through** her: Mikan is but a part of the room, not truly there. “After all, it’s kind of hard to exist when you get killed.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Warnings:** Flashbacks, Mentions of Emotional Abuse and Manipulation, Vomitting scene early on

* * *

“…Killed?” The word slides from Mikan’s lips like a dry breath, and suddenly, she’s aware of how thirsty she is, how parched her throat is, and how hard it is to talk after being silent for so long. Though it feels like yesterday -many yesterdays, she reminds herself- since she’s talked, the slow burn of using her voice aches suddenly. Chiaki blinks and notices, pouring her a cup of water and helping her drink. The cool liquid quells the rough burn, and Mikan forces out a squeak of, “Killed?” once more.

“Yes,” Chiaki replies, tilting her head. “In part by Ko…Nagito,” she says, and there’s a flash of pain in Chiaki’s pale pink eyes that has them looking distant all over again. “I guess his luck was better than the Neo World Program’s system. There’s no algorithm to beat sheer luck. You can’t calculate something that’s not ones and zeros. Nagito was able to reveal that I was the traitor, and…well, game over.”

“How did it happen?” What is a better word, because Mikan’s curious, and it itches in her mind: she wants to know, _has_ to know how someone as kind as Chiaki could be a killer, could get killed. She doesn’t want to admit to which one it could be either.

It’s as if Chiaki both did and didn’t register Mikan’s question, because she keeps chatting in that same, soft voice. “Executed, really. I honest was surprised as you were when they woke me up from the simulation. Not that it was a simulation,” she adds, and for a moment, trails off. “Just that I had survived. I’m the only one in my family to do that so successfully, you know?” Her eyes flick over to Mikan, then back down to the chair, then to the wall behind her.

Mikan wants to ask “Family?” but that seems insincere, and she doesn’t want to offend, doesn’t want to suddenly be left alone despite her trepidation towards Chiaki. Yet Chiaki sees the question in her eyes, and answers. “My dad, Chihiro Fujisaki. He… He was one of the players in the first Mutual Killings by Enoshima.”

 _Enoshima_.

It’s like she’s been hit by a Truth Bullet, that name is so powerful: it’s a lead weight in Tsumiki Mikan’s stomach, and it flashes her back to one of their last interactions.

_They were in bed that night, Junko still stinking of blood, yet it didn’t mater because her eyes -blue, brilliant, sparkling- were locked on Mikan, and her smile -so genuine and sweet and kind- was wide. “So, you know why I asked you to come?”_

_Mikan can only **hope** she knows, can only **hope** it’s because of her latest experiment: a way to incapacitate without killing, a successful injection that leaves the victim perfectly aware and awake, but otherwise paralyzes them. Such things are not new, of course, but Mikan’s found the **perfect** way to do it without harm, to stretch out the path to **despair** as the victim waits, heart thudding as they tip toe closer to the edge. Junko seemed please with her tests, so **happy** , that maybe this is a reward, a boon for being so devoted to her Beloved Goddess of **Despair**._

_There’s a twisting in Mikan’s gut that’s become a tell as Junko drops her voice. She knows Junko’s mood is in flux, and that anything can happen right now. The anxiety, the **tension** , mounts and she can’t help but moan: the very fresh **despair** of Junko possibly turning on her makes her writhe on the sheets, and apparently, that’s exactly what Junko wanted, because she drags her red nails down Mikan’s sides and to the tops of her thighs, moaning and cooing as she does._

_Junko hitches up the bottom of Mikan’s skirt, flips the hem to reveal pale, scarred thighs and pinches at them, giggling. “You have such a pretty body,” she coos, and Mikan colors, squirming beneath her beloved. “You’re so soft and plush. I’m just all hard lines and curves and fucking horrid. See,” she says, pausing. “That’s why you’re so beautiful: you’re prettier than even **me**.” And in that moment, Mikan **believes it** , thinks that Junko finds her so **previous** that she surpasses her beloved in looks, thinks that her cuts and bruises and threaded scars are lovely in Junko’s eyes and that she, one day, when the word is fully rotted, can be stunning in her own right._

_Junko rolls her hips and moans, bubblegum pink lips smacking as she pants heavily, licking her milk white teeth. “I’m feeling really, **really kind** today, Mikan, because you put me in such a **good** mood that I don’t even mind being nice. How about a reward for bringing me some of that delicious **despair**?”_

_Junko shifts enough to hitch Mikan’s skirt up all the way, to reveal her plain, white underwear. She tears them easy, ripping the cotton with a loud snap of the threads, and cackles when Mikan covers her face, cowering. Anxiety floods Mikan’s chest, inflates it like a balloon, and she sinks into the despair that only she and her beloved can share, gobbles down the gut twisting feeling until she feels a hand ghost over the thatch of hair. At eighteen, Mikan’s never done anything like this, but her body **wants it** , wants Junko to be her first. “Please, Junko-sama,” she breathed, voice a squeak, and Junko smirks, eyes glinting._

_Then, there’s the slide of Junko’s fingers, eager and wanting, parting her folds, slick fluid making a squelching sound, and Mikan feels like she could **die**._

The thoughts come rapid fire: Junko’s perfect, oval nails digging into her hip, the slide of Junko’s body against her, whispers of sweet nothings, promises that Mikan was, indeed, her favorite. It’s too much, _so_ much, and Mikan can’t handle it, can’t take the pain of having to remember everything she did in the name of a person who loved her.

“I don’t wanna hear her name please!” Mikan squeaks out, and she tucks her chin, feels the burning, blue eyes of her of…of her _what_? Beloved? Her Queen? Her light? She can’t think of _anything_ befitting Enoshima Junko right now, can’t think of a title that doesn’t take away the churn of her gut, that doesn’t make her taste regret.

The regret is a bitter tang in her mouth and it sours, twisting her stomach. She turns her head back and forth, trying to stave it off, but it’s all Mikan can do to mutter, “Chiaki” before she turns, spilling the jello and water into Chiaki’s lap, soaking her shorts and the bottom of her shirt, a splatter of translucent blue on a background of slight green. It leaves Mikan’s throat burning from the rawness of voiding her gut, but worse is the burn of her cheeks, the sweeping, sinking embarrassment of what’s occurred.

“I…Excuse me,” Chiaki says, and she gets up and simply leaves.

When the clock turns to 4 a.m., Mikan is 100% sure she’s turned the last person on the planet who may have cared about her against her.

She remembers the instant: Chiaki left, lap a wet mess, pink eyes wide as she tried to contain the wetness, tried to keep it from the floor and from tacking to her legs. Worse, she hasn’t come back in an hour. Thankfully, the sun is dawning: Mikan knows she’ll be busy with routine tests today, and that’s the only salvation in all of this.

Eventually, around six, there’s a knock, then Aiko enters. “Good morning, Mikan,” she greets, and her voice is a welcome sweetness. “It’s wonderful to see you still awake. I hope you had a pleasant night.” Either she knows or she doesn’t: Mikan can’t tell if Aiko is trying to keep from upsetting her, or if Chiaki hasn’t said anything about the puking incident last night. She doesn’t press though: there’s no desire to feel another round of embarrassment.

“I stayed up,” Mikan settles on saying, and instantly feels silly: she just repeated what Aiko had said.

“I’m glad. Well, today is a busy day, Mikan. You’ve got a lot of tests. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Mikan replies, nodding slowly.

“Good. Well, then I’ll let you get started on your day, okay?” Aiko shifts a bit and pink hair shows, and Mikan knows who it is: Chiaki is there, tucked behind Aiko’s height.

If Mikan could, she’d jump from bed, tumble to the ground, and perform dogeza until she felt like she was dizzy, until Chiaki forgave her for emptying her belly all over her lap. But she can’t: she’s still so weak and can’t even get out of bed, and knows she won’t for a while, versed in the body as she is. Mikan shudders and settles for looking down at her lap.

“I thought you’d like a walk to orient yourself to Future Foundation’s compound,” Aiko says, and Mikan nods meekly, shifting a bit in the bed. “Chiaki here has volunteered to take you out, seeing as she’ll be with you during the day for your tests.” Aiko steps aside and Chiaki walks in, and this time, she’s clad in a different outfit: scrubs that have a pattern of game controllers, her hair pulled back into a short ponytail. She looks like any other hospital worker, though occasionally, her eyes flair with an overlay displaying various data before it goes away, leaving her looking just as human as Mikan.

Mikan gulps and starts to weakly tap her fingers on the bed, nodding. “I’d like to get out of bed now.”

“Ah, good,” Aiko says, and Chiaki steps into the room in full, leaving them momentarily alone until Aiko returns with a wheelchair and a plastic package: slippers, Mikan sees, the kind that patients are always given. “Let’s get you moving: the sooner, the better, so you can start on your strength training again.”

With a sweeping hand, Chiaki pulls the blankets from Mikan, leaving her exposed for the first time, and she finally sees how she looks. She’s wan, and from the hips down, narrow, bones jutting from her sallow skin. She certainly couldn’t walk: she’d break her bones, snap her body like a twig, and she wonders if the _rest_ of her is like this, if Chiaki sees a barely breathing, broken girl when she looks at her. “How…” Mikan breaths out, and she knows the _how_ : she knows what a comatose state does, what only liquid diets do to a healthy state. She remembers going into her final moments healthy and pink: now, she’s raw and moon milk pale.

“You look fine,” Chiaki states, and when Mikan looks up, she sees Chiaki starring directly at her. “Remember, you’ve gone through a lot. You’re still alive, okay?” She smiles, quickly, then her lips are set in a flat line again as she hauls Mikan up from the bed.

Chiaki hefts her up, arms wrapped around her, and for a moment, Mikan forgets that Chiaki is full of mechanical wonder, that she’s not just an average human girl: she can heft ten Mikans, she thinks, can heft more than her weight. She plops down into the wheelchair softly, and feels her legs lift as Chiaki slides on the slippers.

“You can remove the tubes,” Aiko says. “She’ll be alright off of them. They were most just food: she’ll get something more substantial today. Maybe some broth,” Aiko says cheerfully, and Mikan can’t help but smile. “Now, enough chatter: you’ve got a walk to go on, then tests in Building Six. You downloaded the agenda, Chiaki?”

“Yes,” Chiaki replies, and thumps a hand against her head. “Just notify me of any changes?”

“Of course,” Aiko says, then turns on her heels, shoes squeaking against the tiles. Chiaki’s attention turns fully onto Mikan then, leaning down before her.

“All settled?” Chiaki asks, and Mikan squeaks a yes, and then they’re off, rattling from the room and into the hallway.

Out here is less white, thankfully, and is soft peach and blue. There’s a sixteen rooms in total rooms lining the long hall, and Mikan imagines fifteen -fourteen, as Chiaki is behind her- bodies laying in those rooms, some awake, some still sleeping, and tries to push away the thought immediately. She’s not at all ready to face _anyone_ , though she knows Hajime sits behind one of those doors waiting for her. Chiaki doesn’t comment when they pass his room on the right side of the elevator, and simply pushes the down button. The elevator dings, and they enter, and soon, drop down, the ride smooth. They exit out into another light, pastel toned lobby, and Chiaki halts, shifting around. “Almost forgot,” she muses, and withdraws a pair of sunglasses from her pants’ pocket, settling them over Mikan’s eyes. “I can’t risk my patient getting hurt,” she says, and for a moment, Mikan thinks she hears a bit of teasing in Chiaki’s voice, but Chiaki goes back to remaining quiet, and starts pushing Mikan forward again.

They exit out a pair of sliding doors that hiss open and into a small middle space before the wheels clatter outside into **wamth**.

Immediately, the sun feels **luscious** , a warm balm across Mikan’s starved skin, and she drinks it in, glad that Chiaki placed sunglasses over her eyes. There _is_ a burn, regardless, and it stings, but Mikan would take it for the rest of her life if it meant having the sun all over her like this, bathing her in warmth. She tilts her head back and extends her arms out, letting the loose hospital gown slide down her arms until she can’t hold them out anymore. She sags in the seat, drinks in the sun even more, and lets Chiaki roll her until they reach a small garden off the main path.

Mikan opens her eyes once the faint smell of blooms strikes her nose, and can’t remember the last time she ever saw flowers: the world simply didn’t _look_ like this before she went under, and now, the striking blues and oranges, yellows and reds make her gasp. She _loves_ flowers -loved them even in despair- but soon, something else replaces elation: concern and worry.

 _Ahem_. “Are you mad at me?”

 Chiaki wheels them to a stop, and Mikan catches her moving from the back to the side of the wheelchair. She looks bashful, suddenly, and looks down, rocking back and forth on her heels, shoes squeaking. “…Chiaki?’

“No, did you think I was?” Chiaki finally asks in return.

“Yes,” Mikan admits, her voice simply a soft sigh. “You… you never came back to my room after…” Mikan has to fight to make herself say the words. “After I threw up on you last night.” Her voice fades back to that telling squeak, and she feels her whole body flush over with embarrassment. It threatens to burn hotter than the sun above, and she only feels it more intensely now that Chiaki is quiet.

“That was alright. You couldn’t control it,” Chiaki says. “This is all a process, Mikan. Don’t be ashamed of your body trying to heal.” Those words sink heavy into Mikan, and she feels her heart swell for a moment before Chiaki moves behind her. “I’m not mad: promise,” Chiaki adds, and a shy smile sneaks into her voice. “Let’s go get your tests done,” she says, and there’s a lightness in voice that resolves everything, settling Mikan enough for now.

* * *

 

It’s quiet without Chiaki, and for no good reason, Mikan can’t figure out why.

They were together all day through the tests, Chiaki wheeling her from room to room, from syringes of blood to I.V. drips to urine tests and x-rays. She’s there next to Mikan the entire time, silent more often than not, but gentle, her presence a nice memory of the sun. Chiaki keeps her calm too: Mikan may be the Ultimate Nurse, but her fear of needles -a new thing- has her on edge, and it’s a fight to keep her from flashing back. When she feels on edge, Chiaki is there for Mikan to grip her hand, to fight through the feelings until she’s able to exhale and finish the test of the hour.

Evening comes and Chiaki wheels her back, and carries her back into bed. There’s an odd moment where Chiaki looks like she’s going to stay, scrubs and all, but then she says, “I should go for today,” and Mikan is alone, alone, **alone**.

It’s more than just her absence Mikan realizes after a half hour: it’s more so that she feels a sort of longing for Chiaki. They were never exceptionally close in the simulation: Chiaki let her play games, showed her a few tricks to getting high scores, and was all together gentle with her, but they weren’t what Mikan would call close. Even now, they’re not close: Mikan’s only been up for two days, and she rationalizes that relationships -tentative as they’ve always been with her- can’t be so deep so quickly, that there’s no way Chiaki could feel like any kind of comfort so quickly. So Mikan does what she does best: she forcibly swallows the blooming anxiety -perhaps, despair- for later.

Eventually, Mikan turns on the television for white noise and soon, a nameless, plain nurse comes in with a tray for her and warm smile, and offers Mikan a spoon for her food. It’s all soft, plain, easy foods: a plain rice porridge with a sprinkle of salt and a few greens on top, a clear broth, more water, and a jello cup, the lid already removed. Thankfully, Mikan is left in silence once more, because something builds inside her gut, far different from the sickening twist of nausea.

She eats the small bowl of porridge, slowly swallowing, working her throat to gulp down the warm food. It’s _so_ delicious: Mikan hadn’t ever though salt could taste so **good** , but it does, and she has to stop with a few bites left in order to drink the broth. The broth is good too, a basic miso that tastes sharp and pungent, and she swallows it all before she can pause to savor it. With zest, she finishes the last of the porridge, swallows her cup of water, and is left with, of course, the jello cup.

It’s unassuming, of course, and is simply what it is: a treat or a snack. Yet it’s the same blue as the night before, the same olive branch that Chiaki so openly presented to her, without question or expectation of return favor. It was just Chiaki being **kind** , and that hits Mikan hard. No one’s been **kind** to her since her beloved, and sitting her, a plastic spoon in hand, she wonders what **kindness** really is, if she’s _ever_ had it and that’s why she longs for Chiaki to be back next to her after only two days. She doesn’t want to call it affection: that’s a four letter word, and it means **manipulation** , but Mikan can’t think of another word.

And that twists her guts and makes her eyes sting.

She jabs the spoon into the jello, feels her eyes sting painfully, and gasps in a deep, shaking breath, and all she can do is look at that cup of blue jello and cry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Warnings:** Flashbacks, Mentions of Previous Self-Harm, Panic Attacks, Mentions of Bullying, Mentions of Previous Murder (SDR2 Chapter 3), Body Shaming/Slurs

 **Author’s Note:** I think I accidentally found the song that pretty much resonates the entire first arc of this fic: **[Rolling Girl feat. Hatsune Miku, but the Aki Akane cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y9GOJ77NAfo)**. It’s very powerful, and really is lowkey Mikan’s character song, if she ever had one. I suggest listening to it sometime while reading this fic: it’s certainly going on repeat for most of my writing. Also, understand that I am a historian: I have no background in psychology. However, I tried my best to use my own sessions and interactions to write the scene contained within this chapter. Please, take it with a grain of salt, and not as hard fact.

* * *

 

Mikan stayed alone for the next few days, and the longer she did, the more she was sure that some part of her wanted to reach out and contact Chiaki, that some part of her wanted to solve these weird feelings blooming inside. Between another battery of tests -other than being generally wan, Mikan was healthy and would otherwise grow to live a healthy life still- Mikan felt so very lonely.

Yet today, that was the _last_ thing on her mind when a male nurse came to take her downstairs for a meeting with **Hinata Hajime**.

They road down to the second floor, turned right and entered a vast cafeteria. It was clear that they’d arranged for it to be empty: despite the clatter of the kitchen, no one was there, save for assumably Hajime. After getting her tray in the lunch line, Mikan was wheeled over, clattering across the cafeteria to a single spot of color, and was _sure_ that only Hajime was there. When he stood, wearing a hospital gown and pants, she knew that this would be a one-on-one for sure.

There Hajime was looking, undeniably, in Mikan’s direction, green eyes wide as the nurse kept rolling her forward. Desperately, she wanted to reach her hands down and grip the wheels, turn them to stop, but the tray in her lap occupied her efforts, and despite shutting her eyes, she could still feel the gaze of Hajime lingering on her skin. It was an itch, pervasive, and made her want to scream, but she bit back the panic once more and let the nurse keep pushing her forward. _Don’t want to be the problem child, right?_ she told herself. _Be good_.

She came to a stop across the table from Hajime, and the nurse set the tray on the flecked plastic top, patting Mikan’s shoulder. “I’ll come get you in an hour, okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” Mikan whispered, voice a low buzz. The nurse nodded and exited, leaving her under the bright fluorescent with **Hajime**.

He didn’t look much different from the simulation: same tanned skin, same bright eyes, same broad shoulders and front, but he _was_ different. More wan, more drawn in, taller, calmer, forehead marred with faded ridges of scars that even his bangs didn’t completely hide. She didn’t see the same brazen spark he’d demonstrated, didn’t see the same zeal he’d had. Perhaps, most of all, Hajime had been **broken** , Mikan thought. Perhaps, even more in his own way, than her.

“Hi Mikan,” Hajime finally said, and when he smiled, the room **glowed**. _There_ was the spark, the zeal, the zest, tucked into a white toothed grin that made her heart flutter. He’d always been so kind to her, had tried to fight for her to the end, and Tsumiki Mikan saw that he _still_ cared for her, that in his heart, Hajime still **liked her**.

And, of course, it made her cry.

She leaned back from her food, and felt snot build in her nostril, felt the pain of tears bubbling up right under her nose, felt the sting of them falling as she sniffled and shuddered, hands gripping her robe tightly. Hajime made no move to touch her: she hadn’t asked permission, and he respected that, wanting to give Mikan space. That seemed to be, to him, the one thing no had ever given her: **her own space** , and he wanted her to move through the moment as she needed to.

Eventually, Mikan felt grounded enough to snort out a sigh and look Hajime in the eye. “S-Sorry, I see…seem to do this a lot lately. Crying, that is,” she added, and Hajime offered a kind, gentle smile.

“It’s alright,” he answered. “I’m here for you, Mikan.”

“…Promise?” It was a soft request, and had Hajime’s ears not twitched in recognition, Mikan would have though her lips simply would have appeared to be forming a sigh.

“Promise, or I’ll eat a thousand needles!” Hajime teases, flashing another brilliant smile.

“Please don’t do that Hajime, or you’ll make me have to go back to being a nurse so soon!” Hajime’s eye grew wide, then relaxed as he caught the slight smile on Mikan’s lips, a gently curving arch the made her eyes gleam. He let out a soft laugh and took a drink of milk from a cup, shaking his head.

Time passed between them for a few minutes after that, and Mikan once more found that salt was _so_ delicious and promised herself that if she could ever reconcile with his nature, she’d ask Teruteru to cook her a lavish meal purely based off the stuff it was _so good_. She finished halt her meal before she found another talking point. “Have you seen Chiaki?”

“Ah, yeah!” Hajime replied, and he shoved a bite of fish into his mouth, chewing as he talked. “I was really surprised. I mean…Well, when we survived to the end, it was without her,” he said, and his shoulders dropped. “When she…”

“She mentioned it to me,” Mikan supplied, nodding slowly. “She said that she was executed for killing Komaeda?”

“Yeah. His luck was better than the simulation,” Hajime says, and Mikan thinks of those exact words coming from Chiaki’s lips.

“Is he awake?” Mikan asks, tilting her head.

“Ah, he’s still asleep, though I visit every afternoon.”

“Ah. He was a nice person,” Mikan remarks. “A bit misunderstood at times, but nice.”

“Yeah…” There was a reddening of Hajime’s cheeks, a deep, slow blush that crept across his features, making his nose wrinkle up, eyes crinkle at the corner, and brow shine with sweat. Mikan didn’t have to be a nurse, didn’t have to know the body inside and out to know what that was: Hajime _liked_ him. _Likes_ him, Mikan corrected: actively, right now likes him.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispered, and giggled, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Sorry, not laughing at Chiaki. It’s just….Hajime, your _face_!” she gasped. “You’re so red!”

Hajime began to sputter, but Mikan only laughed more, vocal chords straining a bit with the effort. It was freeing: she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed _so_ hard at anything, especially in good nature. “I was right!” she cheered, clapping her hands together.

“I…Yes,” Hajime said, worrying his bottom lip. “I like Nagito.”

“Ooo, Nagito?” Mikan asked. “First names!”

“ _We_ ,” Hajime began, motioning between them, “use first names.”

“But I don’t _like_ you, Hajime. Not like that. My love is more innocent,” Mikan countered. She felt her own face heat at that: she truly _did_ love Hajime, though it was more as a close friend. She had, at one point, thought his kindness meant love in a romantic sense, but even in the simulation, the feelings of care, of a true friend, had been more apparent. They’d stuck then, through two years of inactivity, and felt fresh as yesterday. She took a sip of green tea -another luxury, and so fresh she could taste the earth on the back of her tongue- and tilted her head. “Have you told him? You know there’s evidence that comatose patients respond to loved ones, and that-”

Hajime set to sputtering again, and waved his hands. “Back to Chiaki!”

Mikan knew well enough when to leave something alone, though her question still itched at the back of her mind. “It’s…strange,” Mikan began, swirling her spoon around another bowl of broth, this time a sharp, miso soup. “I didn’t know until…Well, that last moment that Chiaki wasn’t…” Mikan groans, hand clenching then flexing, dropping the spoon into the soup.

“Easy, Mikan,” Hajime says, and extends a hand out. Mikan shakes her head and he rests it, palm down, on her forearm. “It’s a process.”

“S-Sorry…I just…It hurts to think of the simulation. Of…” Of **killing** , she thinks. Of dragging a knife across Saionji’s throat, of strangling Ibuki while she babbled, crushing the last, fevered words from her lips. It’s not the worst Mikan has orchestrated, real or not, and she knows it, and the very thought of **worse** brings on a fresh headache. “Sorry, Hajime…”

“No, no, it’s alright Mikan,” Hajime replies. “I had my time. Now, it’s yours.”

Mikan nods twists at the sound of someone entering the room: it’s the same male nurse again, coming to take Mikan away. Her food is half finished, but she finds it hard to think about eating more and lets the wheelchair turn, away from Hajime’s gently worried green eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Tsumiki Mikan.”

“Age?”

“I…I don’t know.” She was eighteen when the world fell. Three years of sleep… perhaps twenty-one? That doesn’t feel too bad. “Twenty-one.” But then she thinks of the others that have been awake. “Twenty-two.”

“Talent?”

“High School Level… Um, just Nurse,” Mikan says: she’s no longer high school ages. She’s legally an adult now. The feeling is strange.

“Last memory?”

 **Pause. A beat**. “Dying.”

The therapist isn’t the famed Ultimate, but one of her mouthpieces: Gekkogahara Miaya is known for not speaking often despite her skill with working a patient through to an end. It’s not Aiko either, though the woman before Mikan –Ueda Haruhi– is just as kind, with soft features and hair that’s greying at the roots. “Thank you, Tsumiki-san. Is that alright, calling you Tsumiki?”

“Mikan is fine,” Mikan replies softly. “I’d prefer it.”

“Well, Mikan-san, thank you for coming to see me today. I will be working with you to help you through your healing process,” Haruhi begins. “I have been assigned by Gekkogahara-san to personally assist you in this process. You’ll have my personal line for access at all times of the day, and don’t worry: I live in the Foundation’s compound, so you are never bothering me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mikan says, nodding. She adjusts on the soft chair she’s been sat in, rolls her shoulders and sighs.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to take you back to a moment. I find that orienting yourself in a powerful instant can help to clear your head and allow for the memories that may be missing to come through. Is that understandable?” Mikan nods at Haruhi, lips a flat line. “Good. Now, lay back, and we’ll begin.”

Haruhi clears her throat, and then there’s a scratching on her clipboard as Mikan adjusts, sagging in the chair. “Let’s go through that final memory, if you don’t mind. Let yourself go back to the best starting point you can think of.”

“O-Okay.” Mikan closes her eyes, exhaling slowly as a memory comes.

_Guilty. It’s a four letter word, a slur against Mikan. It’s as if they don’t get the **why** of the murders, the **why** of killing: she did it as a sign of **love** , a true crime of passion._

_“Sorry” is written in Hinata Hajime’s eyes as she walks past to Monokuma, chin tucked to her chest. She can’t say anything, can’t think of anything to say, and instead, let’s Monokuma take her, collar and chain at her neck, to her death with a resigned expression. Though she struggles, it doesn’t show in her face: she’s just flopping, features **wanting** to contort, but unable to given the fact that she’s about to be reunited with her **Beloved**._

“Continue, Tsumiki-san. You’re doing well.”

_Then, a bed._

_Warm, soft, plus: that’s how **all** hospital beds are though. She feels the touch of a clammy washcloth on her brow, and the gentle itch of sheets at her back. She doesn’t remember getting there though: she stepped into a light, then suddenly, she was in this bed. It’s not real, of course, by the sensations are: the sheets, the clamminess, the antiseptic. Mikan feels **everything**._

_A thrill of_

_Then Mikan is **flying**._

_The air up here is cold, sky blue and grey, island five -there were five, and she only got to see three- patches of green dotting blue waters. It looks like rain up this high, cloud fat and high and puffy, and as she streaks through, rocket jetting up, up, up, she can’t help but feel **despair in her gut.** This isn’t the glorious death her beloved died: she went out with a true **bang**. Mikan will just go out with a whimper. It’s sad, but that’s been her life: a mess of sadness and mistakes, all accumulating and amounting to this moment._

_Thank goodness she’s not Ultimate Luck._

_She whizzes through the air, feels the rocket enter it second burn, and erupts from the clouds into sunshine. There’s a drop of weight as the back of the rocket fully detaches, and she’s soaring higher, higher, higher, sight a bit fuzzy as the sun warms her skin. She tils right, left, right, left, gasping at air that’s not **real** , but feels so. damn. m **issing** that Mikan can’t -couldn’t **breath**._

“Tsumiki-san, take your time. You don’t have to ru-”

_A hand extending from the heavens._

_Caress, caress, caress, heaven's angel come for her, oval red nails and slender fingers crooking towards Mikan as she enters a thin, black space, body burning from the heat of being so high up. Here, the blue melts into grey melts into **black** , yet that hand still remains, reaching for her.  I_ _t reaches down and is before her, grasps her throat, blood red nails digging into her neck, and **crushes down** , dragging what little breath remains in her lungs from her. There’s something oddly erotic, and it turns her gut with the last effort of staying alive, and she submits, feeling the **punishment** of death clamp down all around her. Then-_

“No, stop!” Mikan’s hands are at her throat, and she gasps, feeling the tightness of space all around her. She feels that pale, red nailed hand around her throat and pulls at the air, looks for gleaming blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair and a short pleated skirt but finds none, only finds sweaty hands and the room spinning. Mikan feels like a singularity, compressed into only that instance, and she sinks into the chair, feels the threads and fabric and foam swallowing her deeper. "J-Jun..." she feels a press and gags, hands scratching at Enoshima's forearm, digging into soft, peach toned flesh. "N-No!" she gasps, and the world tilts, black bubbles at the edges, and Mikan feels like she really  **will die** , that she'll fade out so soon after coming back to life.

“Tsumiki-san!” There's a clatter, then the door flies open and a nurse is inside, and she presses a washcloth between Mikan's open mouth as she screams, to keep her from biting off her lip. The cloth is hot, and air is tight, and everything focuses on that moment.

Then the world **pauses**.

Everything returns to normal: that pale, detached arm, the flash of skirt, the gleaming eyes, they’re all gone, and Mikan is left with just Haruhi, just another nameless, plain faced nurse who has a calm look on her face despite her wide, black eyes. “We’ll stop for today, Tsumiki-san. I want you to get some rest and we’ll meet later this week if you would like,” Haruhi says. There’s a creak as Mikan is assisted back into the wheelchair, though it’s more like she’s **hauled** , and she sags into the chair, positively exhausted, and its turned around and out of the room to another pastel hallway. The nurse says something to Mikan, but she doesn't register anything but Enoshima Junko cackling from behind her, sharp red nails and black boots clicking **sharply**  as she laughs.

 

* * *

 

After a bath and a walk around the compound, Mikan comes back to find her bedroom occupied by an awaiting Chiaki, who sits in the chair next to her bed in a set of orange scrubs that instantly make her think of Saionji Hiyoko. 

It’s draining after an already draining after the session, and now, there’s the thought of her biggest bully on her mind, and the even more pressing thought that said bully is somewhere on this exact floor, sleeping, waiting to wake to **torment** Mikan anew. She seizes up in the chair as the nurse leaves her to Chiaki, and when Chiaki approaches, flinches and throws her arms up before her, cowering with fear, and feels a fresh wave of agony wash over her. "S-Saio..."

Chiaki senses the change, looks down, and smacks her forehead. “Oh geez, and I wanted to make your day end well, not that things with Hajime went bad?” her voice rises in question at the end, and Mikan, eyes averted as she waits for Chiaki’s hand into bed, nods in a way that Chiaki knows things went well enough. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. No. Just… Saionji,” Mikan shudders out, and she flashes back for a moment, remembers a strange time.

_Saionji only wore orange when it meant trouble._

_She’d switched the black kimono, seemingly perpetually in mourning for a broken, breaking world. Even in all black, Saionji still had an aura about her, was beautiful and fierce. At twenty, she was beautiful, clad in silk kimono so dark that even blood didn't show. She stank, now, from sweat and blood, not simply from being human: if Mikan could compare the smell, she'd say that Saionji always smelled of carrion, as if she were a Queen bathing in blood. That was fitting for such a diva: a beautiful woman kept eternally young by a **despairingly scrumptious**  feast of gore._

_Even though they were both part of Ultimate Despair, even though Mikan and Hiyoko lived the same lives, it still frightened Mikan to be around her, and despite her beloved, Enoshima always found a way for them to both be together.  It was borderline cruel, though Mikan never knew how to bring it up.“It’ll be **fun**!” Junko would always say, and that pacified the situation, put a plug in things. “Do it for me, my darling?” Mikan was always swayed by that, and agreed eagerly: she wanted to please Junko, after all._

_They ended up at one of the torture houses in Towa City, nested down a few back alleys. Gladly, they’d added fresh victims for experimentation: Mikan had been running low on test subjects, and Hiyoko’s dancing had enticed a slew of men into their arms, only for Mikan to stick them with needles and knock them out. Now, it was a matter of waiting for Enoshima’s next orders, which mean Saionji would get **impatient** : Mikan  **hated** an impatient Hiyoko. _

_After all, she always took it out on her favorite target._

_“Hey, **fatty** , come here!” Saionji is, of course, calling to Mikan, and Mikan comes, tugging her black skirt down further, smoothing the pleats. As soon as she’s near, Saionji grabbed a lock of her hair and tugs, forcing Mikan to bend lower than Hiyoko’s short stature if she wants to keep the hair, and that makes the dancer laugh, high pitched and sickeningly **beautifully**. “I’m bored,” Saoinji began. “Let’s play a game, bitch pig?” Saionji cooed. “Hide and seek, but let me  **win**." Hiyoko  **always** won. _ _Mikan knew what that game meant: she’d run, and Saionji Hiyoko would **hunt** , and it would all be in the name of her selfish, selfish **despair**. "I'll give you until twenty because I'm feeling nice today, then I'm coming after you, **piggy**!" Hiyoko gave one last hard jerk to Mikan's hair, then let go, leaving Mikan feeling raw and aching. "Twenty...ninteen...come on,  **fat ass** , you're wasting my time! Ten..."_

_Mikan knew she'd better run._

Mikan comes out of the memory **hard.**

“H…He…” Mikan can’t even get the whole word out before Chiaki is kneeling in front of her between her legs, arms around Mikan protectively. Without asking, Mikan buries her face in Chiaki’s pink locks and is surprised to find that they smell like strawberry. It grounds her back in the hospital room, enough that she can pull herself through the panic and settle back into simply **being**.

Mikan chooses to focus back on the softness of Chiaki’s hair. Where she was, by no means, a mechanic, she knew enough -had _thought_ she knew enough- to think that Chiaki’s body only needed spot maintenance, that things like showers or washing her hair were null and void. Yet her hair is soft as anyone else, and has the same, real feel like her own.

“They’re human,” Chiaki offers, shuddering as Mikan cards her hand through the locks. “I have to wash them. It. My hair.” She was stuttering, and it seemed off to Mikan: Chiaki was normally the definition of lax, moving through life observantly, but at her own pace. Now, she was fidgeting, and moving Mikan’s hands from her hair with puffed, red cheeks. “You should save your energy.”

“No,” Mikan says, and nuzzles the strands more. “You smell good, and I missed you.”

Chiaki goes rigid for a moment, then laughs: forced, still light, but with an edge. “Well, I have to run the entire mainframe for the Future Foundation. True, my older brother helps, but sometimes, the two of us are necessary. You wouldn’t have television without me,” she says, and her voice is light again. She lets out a purr of a sigh as Mikan goes back to carding her hands through Chiaki’s hair, winding the locks around her fingers. Never before has she imagined the feel of them, but now, she sees they’re butter soft, silken in her hand. “Why, do you want me around more often?”

“Yes.” Mikan says it without hesitation, then recoils, yanking her hands back into her lap. That four letter word comes up in her mind again: **affection**. Hajime’s in the kind of wonders, a gentle, patient thing that only wants to give Mikan a smile, but Chiaki…possible affection with her makes Mikan’s belly feel full of bees, a roaring buzz that stings at her. She can’t tell why: she’s never felt this way, so nauseous and tongue tied and flustered. Even with Junko, she felt in control for the most part, though now, she realizes how tenuous that was, and how little control she was allowed.

Yet with Chiaki, in this moment, she thinks of how nice it would be to let someone else take the lead of her own volition.

“Yes,” Mikan asserts again. “I’d like to get to know you. Plus, Aiko said you’d mind me, so…please take care of me.” Mikan lets herself be vulnerable in that moment, lets Chiaki hold her, half in the chair, half against her, cooing and whispering against her brow.

They’re interrupted by another dinner tray: Mikan gobbles the food down, and surprises the nurses by asking for more. They think it’s because finally, she’s regulating: Mikan knows it’s because panic has a way of exhausting the human body and eating up as many calories as going on a run. She’s starved for energy, and when she finally finishes the second jello cup -tonight’s was pear first, then peach- she feels sated, and back in the world.

After dinner, Mikan is drowsy, bobbing back and forth in an attempt to stay awake.

“Go to bed, Mikan,” Chiaki states. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“I…But you’ll just go away again."

Chiaki sighed, then worried her bottom lip. “Okay, stay awake then. Five minutes?”

“Okay.”

Chiaki leaves for exactly five minutes, and when she returns, has her hair pulled up into two buns, and a different set of clothes: pajamas, as Mikan had hoped, though this time, it’s a tank top and shorts. It’s not so much the tank top -bright purple with black and silver designs of x’s, o’s, triangles, and squares- but the shorts that make her heart monitor pick up a bit. They ride high: shorts that, if Mikan were any kind of spiritual, she’d call **sinful**. Though short of height, Chiaki’s legs are miles long, shapely, and a soft cream that’s hued with slightly darker freckles. It gets worse when Chiaki stretches and they draw up more, and when, pillow in hand, Chiaki pushes at Mikan, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Over, over,” Chiaki chides, and for a moment, Mikan goes still, mouth open.

“What are you doing?” Mikan asks with a squeak at the end. She wonders if Chiaki recognized that her heart monitor picked up, and _knows_ she had to: Chiaki’s systems are interconnected with the hospitals. There’s no way she _didn’t_ , thus, Mikan figures, she’s simply ignoring it.

“Getting into bed?” Chiaki chimes back, brow furrowed. “So scoot.” Mikan squeaks and jostles herself to the side, opening up half the bed to Chiaki, who fluffs her pillow, slams it down, and flops back, sighing. “Ah, cozy, though I should have brought my vita…” She pouts and shrugs her shoulders, turning onto her side facing Mikan, and sighs. “Well, I’ve got you, and that’s more than enough.”

“Y-Yeah!” Mikan replies, and she wishes that Chiaki would stop driving that buzzing, stomach turning feeling of hers into overdrive.

They don’t talk for a moment, just lay there, eyelids drooping. Chiaki hums softly, and Mikan picks up a single tune, something from a video game add a few years ago. She joins in at the chorus, and Chiaki smiles, shifting her voice to match in harmony. Somehow, over the three minutes of humming and half-singing, they’ve moved closer, leaving sizable spaces at their backs, little left between.

They’re so close by the last reprise of the chorus that Mikan can feel the heat of Chiaki and the subtle click of her internal workings. Here, she can also see how pink Chiaki’s lips are. Even though she’s synthetic, they look as soft and chapped as any humans, and Mikan wonders if she puts gloss or lip jelly on them to keep from cracked skin. Here, they form a heart, pressed together into a constant half smile that makes her stomach do flip-flips, and she realizes _just_ how close they **actually are.**

 _Close enough to **kiss**_.

The song ends and Chiaki tilts her head, lips pressed in a smile, eyes closed, and leans forward. Right as she does, Mikan suddenly snaps her fingers and the lights dim, leaving the blue white glow of the muted television as the only illumination. The room becomes washed in blue, and she shuts her eyes, pinned on the spot by Chiaki’s deep, pink gaze. “I’m tired,” Mikan announces, and she can hear Chiaki’s smile in the reply.

“Good. Now, get some sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.” And before she knows it, Mikan is deep in sleep, head half pillowing itself against Chiaki’s shoulder as she closes whatever gap is left between them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Warnings:** Flashbacks, Mention of Murder (During Despair), Vomit Mention

* * *

 

A month passes, and Mikan keeps moving ahead, steadily making progress.

It’s May she learns: not from the constant rain outside, but from the calendar in her room. She had never thought to ask: time was a bit irrelevant when you wake up to a new world. However, after three weeks -and finally being able to stomach solid, hard foods instead of her mainly liquid and semi-solid diet- she’s been allowed to furnish her room, though the hospital bed remains, as do the machines. It’s a bit warmer now though: she has a chair in a corner, a small stack of books, a vase with flowers she gets from the garden every few days, and a few different changes of clothes, all in soft pastels. The scent of sterilization still remains, of course, but now, the room feels like a new **home**.

A month brings a new freedom: walking, and though a slow process, Mikan loves the feeling of being up again, even if she can’t make it up and down the hall without being winded. Yet ever day, she walks herself up and down the hall until she is returned to her wheelchair, then goes down to the therapy floor to train in a pool.

And Nanami Chiaki is there alongside her the entire time.

Her panic attacks still come, but Chiaki hasn’t worn orange since then: she sticks to pinks and purples, and one day, Mikan notices, one is the exact same color as her hair. That’s another thing that’s changed: Chiaki is careful with her, but also more free. She obliges Mikan, but also pushes her, and it feels… **good**.

That day, like many before, brings another round of therapy, a round that pushes out good feelings and fills Mikan with worry as soon as she rolls down the hall to the therapy offices. She quietly rolls herself in and adjusts off the wheelchair into a chair, Haruhi entering behind her.

The last time they met successfully had Mikan clamping her jaw shut with a fresh wash of memories, all focused on Enoshima Junko. It’s the dirty, dark secret she can’t admit: that she can’t let Junko go even as she shifts towards a new version of herself, that she **won’t** let Junko go even though she **knows** how bad Junko has been. It’s a cycle, and Mikan is caught, and despite knowing her dead beloved was an abuser, she can never bring herself to name Enoshima as such.

“I don’t want to.” Mikan is sitting on a chair in the same office as that horrible first meeting with Haruhi, back pressed against the soft cushioning. “I remember it, but…I don’t want to.” She means Junko, as always: Haruhi has been working with her to unravel the gnarled knot that Junko left behind in her belly, but Mikan doesn’t want anyone to touch that pain.

Not yet, at least. Perhaps not ever.

“Tsumiki,” Haruhi begins, voice low, still calm but clearly concerend. She adjusts her glasses with her pen, and then sets it to paper, dark black eyes looking cautiously at Mikan. “That is understandable, but I would like to see you try soon. The Tragedy has affected us all differently, and in the case of the 77th class, it has been particularly traumatizing. I truly feel as if you’re close to a breakthrough. We should try and name Eno-”

“Stop it!” Mikan exclaims, and she slams her fists down on the chair. “Don’t say her name!” _You don’t deserve it_ , Mikan thinks: _no one does_. Not even the others in Ultimate Despair: she wants Junko all alone, can’t let go of the painful feeling of Enoshima. The conflict disgusts her, and she tries to remind her of her coping methods: accept that she was in a bad situation, and work through to a positive solution that helps her understand her place.

She can’t though.

“Tsumiki-”

“I’m trying.” Haruhi sighs, lips tilting down, and Mikan feels a bush spread across her body. I’m trying.”

“I know, Tsumiki. I just want to see you healing.”

Mikan looks down at her lap and feels herself rocking back and forth, gentle shakes of her body as she tries to calm herself down. She fidgets, bites her lip, then looks up from beneath her eyelashes at Ueda Haruhi. “I’m trying!” Mikan tries to emphasize. “I really am…”

“I know, Mikan,” Haruhi breathes out, and her face contorts for only a second, pain flashing across her features, and Mikan feels a small, pellet of regret settle at the back of her tongue, heavy and bitter. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

After that, Mikan gladly wheels herself back without assistance, gliding down the hall to an elevator as fast as she can. Inside, she presses the button for the roof, and jets up to the top where one of many greenhouses reside. The elevator zips up and within a few seconds, Mikan comes to a smooth stop, rolls out, and is in a world of green.

The greenhouses were installed primarily as a source of food. In a broken world, grocery stores and even farms are a hard sell: no one wants to run a business that could be ripped apart by literal tooth and claw. Yet Future Foundation, as it has in all things, sought fit to give the world some order, and they do it from the greenhouses here. Mikan’s counted at least thirty around the compound, and she knows she’s only seen about a third of the mess of sleek buildings: there must be hundreds of beds, growing produce and grains, ready to give to a world that needs a helping hand.

Yet for Mikan, the draw isn’t that: it’s the peace and quiet that invites Mikan in, the chance to get away.

She uses her slips of time mostly here now after discovering it, and finds that between therapy and dinner, this is the only place she wants to be.

Travelling further in winds her around and about a place laden with fruits from labor: apples and oranges, carrots poking through the soil. It’s magic in its own right, and though Mikan has never much cared for gardening, she wonders if when she can stand and move for longer, she’ll come up here and work the beds and plants to try and give back to the world.

Suddenly, in the distant corner of the greenhouse, there’s a splotch of blonde there, then a sigh, and then Mikan rolls around a corner to see a figure hunched in mud, and the blonde splotch turns to long strands of corn silk hair, a voice singing in crisp, Novaselian, or at least, what Mikan assumes the foreign language is: she’s heard English and Chinese, but this language matches neither. It’s hard and strong and proud, despite the soft voice signing in it.

It doesn’t take her long to figure out who of the five that are awake resides here. “…Nevermind-san?” Mikan whispers, but in the quiet of the greenhouse, her voice carries, and the figure turns, a spill of blonde hair rolling down her back to her ankles now, sweeping across the ground and shifting fallen leaves. Mikan’s amazing that with hair like that, it doesn’t tangle, and wonders what her _own_ hair looks like after years of sleeping, what the heft she feels actually is shaped into.

The woman before Mikan is beautiful, slender and soft, with nails and fingers dyed brown from the earth. The tips of her blonde hair are dyed with mud too, but even dirty and earth covered, Sonia Never mind is just as charmingly **stunning**. Like most people, Mikan feels breathless, feels the pressure of the Ultimate Princess in her presence and almost wants to curtsey. Instead, she just rolls forward a bit closer so that they’re within an easy speaking range, wheels clattering over the path.

Sonia eyes Mikan for a moment, then crosses her hands, not at all bothered by the mood: if anything, she looks immensely wise, light green eyes, into a face that’s a bit like the girl before the fall: prior to despair, welcoming in its heart-shaped nature. “Ah, Tsumiki-san,” Sonia says. “How fortunate we meet here.”

 

* * *

 

They never really had a relationship on the Island, or even before at Hope's Peak Academy.

Mikan never thought ill of Sonia Nevermind, the foreign princess of the Novaselic Kingdom. Even in her memories, grim as they are, Mikan can’t dreg up any ill will: they were students, then comrades, then students once more, and now, they are here, patients in the apocalypse they brought to the world. It’s an odd role, even after a month -over two years for Sonia, Mikan thinks- to be in, but here they are, both clad in simple clothes: Mikan in her hospital gown, and Sonia in a pair of loose pants and a long sleeved tunic shirt.

Sonia runs her dirty hands through her hair, and smiles, lips curving up gently. “Mikan?” she asks. “Are you well?”

“Ah, y-yes,” Mikan replies, and folds her hands in her lap.

“Ah, you were rather quiet for a moment just now,” Sonia says. “I was a bit concerned.” There’s something odd about Sonia when she says that: a certain color to her eyes, and Mikan can’t figure out what exactly it is.

“Are… _you_ okay, Nevermind-san?”

“Ah, me? Why yes, I am fine as a fiddle! Fit as a fish! Fish fine” Sonia declares, pumping a fist into the air, though the shine in her eyes isn’t so bright, neither is her enthusiasm. If anything, Sonia Nevermind looks incredibly, undeniably **scarred** , as if trauma has befallen her. Then it clicks, and Mikan understands **why**.

Sonia Nevermind **remembered**.

Mikan, of course, knew who Sonia was: a ruthless leader under Junko, and a heartless woman who savored despair. If they had been given formal ranks, Sonia surely would have been Junko’s General, a dark princess serving the Queen of Despair. They were thick as thieves, and in some ways, thicker than Mikan and Junko, who were more Feudal Lord and Handmaiden if anything. Even now, knowing full well what Junko was, Mikan feels a pang of sadness in her heart, and gulps audibly.

Mikan remembers the day that Sonia returned from her kingdom with the head of her father in a pretty, blue box, his eyes wide as he stared up at his murdered. Sonia had been so happy: happy enough that when Junko invited her back to the hotel they’d taken up as headquarters and up to her room, Mikan knew the kind of reward that would be laved upon her.

_The day that Sonia Nevermind returned from the Novaselic Kingdom was a day of celebration._

_She came back **stinking** , white gown soaked red from hem to chest, spots faded to purple-brown, others soft and **fresh**. Mikan met her downstairs at the front entrance of Towa Tower Hotel, their newest headquarters as they ruined the world. ”Nevermind-san,” Mikan greeted. “You’ve returned.”_

_“Of course I have,” Sonia replied coolly, stepping from the car she’d ordered: even in the apocalypse, Sonia went around in a style befitting royalty, with a personal driver for such outings as these. Her gown, heavy and crusted, swept at odd angles, but Sonia wore it as if even the blood was weaved from silk threads, looking gloriously resplendent even amongst rubble and death. “I assume Enoshima-sama has called for us?”_

_“Yes,” Mikan replied. “She asked that I get you for her.” Mikan was **particularly proud** of that: Junko has begun to rely on her more and more. It seems as if she’s plotting something for Mikan, something **great** , and the feeling drags a crazed smile to Mikan’s face._

_“Tsumiki…try to look a **bit more tasteful** ,” Sonia chided. “We are still royalty: do not disgrace our presence with your…” She waved a hand, lips curving down into a tight frown, then stepped past Mikan into the hotel foyer. “Take this.”_

_Mikan was given a box with some heft, and though curious, she doesn’t open it. Curiouser than opening it was the slight damp feeling on bottom: the cardboard has some sort of stain on it, as if sodden for days, then dried. She’s not sure what to make of it, other than to follow Sonia to avoid any scorn._

_They rode up the elevator to the top floor and come out into Junko’s war room, cobbled together from the conference rooms dotted through the hotel. It’s a mess of mismatched furniture, arranged around dim lights to form a circle that centers on Junko’s own, personal podium. Junko is, of course, waiting there, humming a nonsense song about pots and pans as she spins around the room lazily, eyes flat and glassy, lips a thin line until the twosome make their presence known._

_“Ah, welcome, welcome,” Junko intones, voice flat. “Welcome to the party…”_

_“I’ve returned with Nevermind-san, Enoshima-sama,” Mikan begins, voice wavering. She clutched the box harder, heard a jostling, and looked over to Sonia, who stepped forward._

_“Greetings from the Novaselic Kingdom, Enoshima-sama. I have returned back from the mission you found fit to give me.” Sonia swepts into the room in full and falls into a curtsey that had her bowed down on the floor. She caught Junko’s hand and kisses the back of it, smirking. “I bring a gift. Tsumiki-san, please…open the box.”_

_Mikan undid the lid, peeled off the tape, to find a mess of chalky skin, blonde hair, and glazed blue-green eyes that looked more like marbles than actually body parts. Mikan screamed and Junko squealed her glee, and the box, jostled, tipped forward, upending the contents._

_A head rolled out, and instantly, Mikan’s stomach churned, and she had to fight to keep what food she’d eaten that day inside. Junko, on the other hand, lets vomit fall from her pretty, pink lips, gags on the stink of death, and coughs hard. “Fucking sick!” she exclaims and lets another wave of nausea pass over her lips. She spits hard, cackles, and throws her arms wide, tongue lolling out, personality completely resert. “Pretty Princess brought back her little daddy! Talk about motherfucking daddy issues now?!”_

_“I am simply loyal,” Sonia mused, snatching the head up. She cradled it, brought it to her heart, and kissed the brow. “My father, well…I suppose you would say that he is not loyal at all now, would you not?”_

_Junko’s answer was to empty her stomach again simply for the fun of it._

_Without a second glance, Sonia tossed her father away and bobbed a prim curtsey as she rose from the floor, tossed her hair -it’s got blood globbed into it also, despite its sheen- and quits the room just like that, no permission needed. Mikan is stunned at the head laying there: blonde hair tangles in a silver and gilt crown, and the jewels set into it wink at her._

_Small wonders Sonia Nevermind’s name in the city is the **Corpse Princess**_ **.**

_She walked the streets with the smell of gore on her for days, dragging around the dress as she swept through the streets. Sonia, out of them all, doesn’t look any kind of bothered: she looked at home, carrying her father’s head with her, laughing high and sweetly, Kazuichi following behind with a gun, blowing a spray of bullets wherever she commanded. Even in despair, he is and was dutiful to her, though it’s far more twisted: Sonia is Death Walking, and Kazuichi is Executioner by her hand._

**_And it’s haunting. But Enoshima Junko loves it._ **

The memory is so fresh in her mind Mikan half expects Sonia to have the head right now, but it’s gone, and so is her kingdom. She is both only citizen and only royal in a foreign land, and that weights heavier in Sonia than her hair. “I… Nevermind-san, I don’t know what to say.”

There’s silence for a moment because Sonia doesn’t know what to say either.

“Yes,” Sonia begins. “I remember. Almost all of the simulation, certainly my life before and…during that time,” she says, and looks down, clearly ashamed. “I…I do not know how to explain my feelings, even still, but I do remember.” She looks at Mikan, looks her up and down again, and nods. “We did _very_ cruel things, Tsumiki-san. _I_ did very cruel things.” She clutches her hands, winds her fingers together, and worries her lip for a moment before standing up straight. Slowly, Sonia raises her left hand, caked in brown mud. “Though I understand why: despair is an easy drug to swallow. I fed it to my people when I ordered tanks down the capital road, when I set houses ablaze.” Sonia raises her right hand, looks at it, digits flexing. “Hope,” she pauses and looks at Mikan, then turns her head back towards the greenery, “is not.”

Mikan parts her lips, then closes them: something tells her to let Sonia continue to speak, to let Sonia go uninterrupted. She is glad when she does. “Yet I _believe_ in everything we did to escape the simulation. I believe in the future that we made when we chose to leave the simulation. I do not think that Junk…Enoshima, that Enoshima was _right_. I’d go back and go through waking up with all of those memories again if it meant this moment.” She smiles and shakes her head. “Especially if it means our friends will wake from their slumber. I promised myself that even if I forgot everything that we did, even _when_ I forgot everything we did, I would use all my might and remember. So I did,” she says, sighing out the last sentence. “I suppose this is what is called penance.”

She kneels back down, digs her fingers into the earth, and works a carrot free. It is gnarled, but orange, dusted heavily with dirty. Without hesitation, she wipes it across her lap, smearing dirt, hands shaking as she works. “I do not regret you, Tsumiki Mikan,” Sonia begins. “For a long time…I think I did, because you killed for **despair** , and that was the _one_ thing I hated when I woke up. I couldn’t place the feeling instantly, but I knew that I would never turn to it again, and the fact that you had…it _sickened_ me.” Sonia pinches the bridge of her nose, shudders out a breath, then looks Mikan directly in the eye.

“You sickened me,” Sonia Nevermind admits, lips pressed into a thin line.

It’s candid, and it stings, and Mikan feels the bubble of panic build in her belly: first, a tickle, then a full blown buzz in her body that seizes her lungs. She feels the earth turn to putty, feels the whole greenhouse superheat around her, and lets out a gasp of a sob. “I…I…” She feels so childish in this moment, weeping so openly, but can’t hold back: this is **exactly** what she knew would come, that someone -one of **them** \- would **hate** her.

Sonia shies back for a moment, unsure of what to do other than talking. They’re not close enough to touch, but Sonia’s palm itches to do so, enough if it means breaking social codes. So she leans forward and takes Mikan’s hands, both of them still clutched, and rubs her thumb on the back slowly like her mother used to when she was anxious.

“But I forgive you. Not fully, but…I understand. I did those very same things, perhaps worse. I made myself homeless to pursue affection from a _demon_ in the truest sense,” Sonia says, and her voice speeds up, and tears fall. “I am not better than you, so do not think I hate you now. I have remembered what I did: I am that Sonia and _this_ Sonia.” She sniffles, and Mikan sees Sonia, perhaps, for a bit of who she is: a broken, orphaned woman who had to remember that she was the one to cast her lot in such a way. “I am _rotten_ , worse than trash!” Sonia moans. “And I must live with this every day!”

Mikan grunts and shifts forward, throwing herself from the wheelchair into Sonia. They tumble back, into the mud and beds, and embrace, sobbing and sniffling, trading apologies back and forth. Certainly, this isn’t what Mikan expected to find, but there’s some comfort in this: she doesn’t have to seek Sonia’s attention. It’s being freely given because Sonia is the kind of person who **cares** , from the bottom of her heart, and it hurts to see her like this, a numb, throb in Mikan’s chest that she remembers is her own feelings.

“Sonia, you’re so pretty though,” Mikan starts, and it’s rough: she could have chosen hundreds of things, and instead, focused on the princess’ looks. But she doesn’t stop. Mikan simply presses forward. “You’re so kind and…and nice too. You may have done bad things…but don’t treat yourself so badly.” She thinks of all the bad that’s been handed down to her, of all the pain she’s had to shift through this month, of feeling untethered to everything, and in her heart of hearts, can’t handle seeing someone hurting, though she feels the pull of her other nature to let Sonia stay here and just go.

But change means _changing_ , and somewhere inside herself, Mikan feels like she’s setting down the path to just that.

So they cry together for a long time, past dinner, and into the evening: long enough that someone comes and finds them in the garden, sobbing and whispering, giggles interspersed as finally, Mikan and Sonia get to _learn_ about each other, bit by bit. It’s not the reunion she expect: Mikan hadn’t really expected much of anything, but there’s something here, and it’s **comfort**.

They’re shuffled back to their housing floor, and Sonia makes her way to the end of the hall, shuffling, hair dragging behind her. There’s a bit of a difference to her walk: she’s taller now, a bit more confident, and her eyes, when they look back at Mikan, are a bit sharper. Mikan is amazed that she could be anything more than a stepping stone, that she didn’t have to give up her autonomy today: that she coud help someone without necessarily compromising herself. She’s never really thought about the feeling of…of not being **used**. This attention, this attentiveness…Mikan finds it **refreshing**.

 **And full of hope**.

“Um… Nurse?” Mikan begins, voice low. The figure behind her pauses, and a female voice answers.

“Yes, Tsumiki-san?”

“I’d like to try talking to Ueda-san tomorrow again, please.” Tsumiki Mikan pauses, light eyes wide, corners stinging as she lets herself, for once, be vulnerable in the moment. “I want to try and move forward too.”


	5. Discussion Break: Heart.exe (All-Ages/SFW)

**Summary:** Chiaki can’t sleep despite wanting to, and instead, spends the night falling in love.

 **Rated:** K/G

 **Genres:** Fluff

 

 **Author’s Note:** This is a cute, fluffy side story that takes place during Chapter 3 of _Attenuation_ , where Chiaki and Mikan fall asleep. I chose to leave this separate from _Attenuation_ because it’s not mature, and can be read alone, though it makes more sense in the context of the original fic. If you’re of age, I definitely recommend reading the story up until Chapter 3, then reading this, then returning to the story. I, personally, think it sweetness the story between Chiaki and Mikan. Also, I wanted to give y’all a bit of a moment to breath after Chapter 4’s intensity.

 

* * *

 

“Over, over.” Chiaki says this, without hesitation, pushes at Mikan to try and get her to shift. Even though she’s connected via a few tubes, there’s more than enough give on the hospital bed, more than enough space for two, and she plans to take advantage of that, to finally relax after months of hard work and learning how to mimic being human within a three dimensional form. The bed is blissfully soft, much like her own, and her fluffed up pillow is heaven against her head. She exhales again, just for the sake of letting relaxation in, and smiles lazily.

“Ah, cozy,” Chiaki sighs, then her fingers itch. “Though I should have brought my vita…” She pouts and shrugs her shoulders, turning onto her side to face Mikan, sighing. “Well, I’ve got you, and that’s more than enough.”

Mikan sputters out a reply, cheeks flaring red, and Chiaki feels her gears click a bit quicker, feels the core inside her chest -her version of a heart- thrum quicker in her chest, making the lights in her cheeks burn a bit brighter. To distract herself, she starts to hum: bgm from an older video game ad a couple years before, something along the lines of _Ultimate Utopia_ she believes. It blends into humming and half-singing over the course of a few minutes, and it draws them closer, sheets shifting every few seconds as the natural gravity of each other tugs them close.

Mikan stares at Chiaki for a long time, eyes half lidded, dropping from sleep. Without much focus, Chiaki watches, not even having to pretend to be sleepy: she may be an android, but Future Foundation wanted to make her feel **human** , and sleep is part of her regular cycle, though she can just as quickly shut down the program if she chooses and stay constantly away. Chiaki licks her lips slowly and her humming is muffled for a moment, distorted by her tongue, gears clicking softly as she mulls over another night of rest, and Mikan’s eyes flare before they dart away, and it’s then that Chiaki realizes how close they **actually are**.

_Close enough to **kiss**._

Chiaki’s humming and singing stops, and tilts her head, an easy smile coming to her lips. Inside, she can feel her gears and systems running high, and a warning message flashes across her screen: **Overheat Immanent. Initiating Cooldown Sequence.** Quickly, with a twitch of her thumb, Chiaki dismisses the message and it scatters with a pop, leaving her with clear vision. She can feel the lights and synthetic blood beneath her skin fill her cheeks, can feel the residual warmth of blush. Slowly, Chiaki parts her lips, ready to speak, leans forward and-

Mikan snaps and the room goes dark, though Chiaki’s eyes instantly adjust to a night-vision overlay, pulling what little light there is into her eyes and making the room bright. “I’m tired,” Mikan declares, shutting her eyes tight. Chiaki sighs inside her mind, smile shifting from sweet to knowing. Before the lights clicked out -and even now-

“Good. Now get some sleep. I’ll be here in the morning,” she says, and Mikan adjusts, settling down on her side of the bed. Somehow, her head finds Chiaki once soft snores fill the room, closing the gap between them as her cheek pillows itself on Chiaki’s shoulder.

There's a hour of peace before Chiaki breaks it, unable to keep from saying anything. “Geez,” she sighs, voice low: she doesn't want to wake Mikan now that she's awake. “I see why I was never good at visual novels. I can never figure out the right route and I didn't even trigger the flag!” she says, pink eyes looking down and over to Mikan. She feels the gears inside her whir quicker and forces her systems to slow, overriding her functions to restore herself back to stable status. Chiaki knows exactly why that flair happened: it’s because unlike Mikan, she has a **crush** , and there’s no algorithm in her source code to change that.

There’s not a program inside her that executes a feeling like this in fact, and even with their skill, Future Foundation couldn’t create one if they tried: Chiaki’s feelings are a part of her ever evolving A.I., changing with her as she keeps learning. Chiaki already had a wide knowledge base from the Neo World Program and living on the island: it only grew when she was realized into a humanoid form, and over the past three years of watching Mikan, or waiting for her to wake, and even from the year of program planning it took to realize Chiaki, she found the fondness for the nurse growing, heart full to bursting. She wishes she had words for it -supposes she could find words for the feeling- but doesn’t: there’s something curious about learning human emotions in this form, about feeling them.

She hums softly, adjusting into a sitting position. Mikan shifts down to her stomach, resting on the soft stomach there. Chiaki cards a hand through Mikan’s lap, chuckling, and feels a fresh rush of warmth through her body. “She _is_ kind of cute,” Chiaki muses, and slaps a hand to her face and sighs. “Chiaki, geez! That was terrible!” She sighs exasperatedly and shakes her head in open embarrassment. It takes her a few minutes to stop loathing what she just openly said, but the feeling fades eventually, and she’s left back in the silence of Mikan’s room.

Nervously, Chiaki looks back down at Mikan and feels a tug in her heart, feels her body shift as she bends over at the waist. She gently cradles Mikan’s head, fingers still dragging through her hair, and sighs softly, pink eyes wide and bright. For a moment, she just **hovers** there, held in wait, but then she moves and feels the soft slickness of Mikan’s hair against her lips.

The kiss is brief, a simple, platonic brush of Chiaki’s lips across Mikan’s long, purple hair. She presses it to Mikan’s bangs in the center, sighs, and inhales the scent: antiseptic. On anyone else, it would smell wrong but on Mikan, it smells right, like she’s at home. It makes Chiaki wish they could _really_ kiss: lips against each other, hands held, noses bumping. But she won’t: nothing more than friendship, she declares to herself. Not until Mikan is able to cope and feel healthy for herself.

Tsumiki Mikan has never been first: Chiaki wants to put her there.

That thought has thee warning message flashing over her eyes again and Chiaki tries to override it, but it stays, flashing brightly. “Bed,” she grunts and tucks herself down next to Mikan, back to the girl as she tries to clear her head. Of course, that doesn’t work, and so she ends up sitting back up a moment later, warnings more pervasive.

The warning changes and she feels her body move without command, and suddenly, a heat builds in her belly, then she’s belching out steam. Her system is trying to cool, trying to keep the computers inside of her from heating up and conking out, and it’s _so_ embarrassing: even coolheaded Chiaki can’t help but sigh and want to cover her eyes as the steam keeps pouring out from nose and mouth, making the air humid and sticky, tacking the back of Chiaki’s shirt to the small of her back.

“Oh, Hajime,” Chiaki sighs and a great, white cloud of steam issues forth, dappling Mikan’s forehead. In her sleep, the nurse sighs, and Chiaki feels her whole body warm again, more steam issuing forth. She’s had **three years** to Mikan’s few days or post-simulation awareness, and feel so guilty about the words forming in her mind. She thinks, once more, about how Mikan’s lips would feel: soft and warm and gentle, and more steam fills the room, system huffing out vapor to try and cool her down before she goes into an another round of system cooling. With a gulp, Nanami Chiaki lets those words slip from her mind and out of her mouth, shoulders hunched as she whispers, “I think I might be in **love**.”


End file.
